


Grey Sky Morning

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, John struggles to carry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey Sky Morning

_So you sailed away into a gray sky morning_  
_Now I'm here to say, love can be so boring_  
_Nothing's quite the same, now I'm just saying hey now_  
_But it's not so bad, you're only the best I ever had_

                _“Best I ever had (Grey Sky Morning)” – Vertical Horizon_  

 

The first month after Sherlock jumped was preoccupied by boxing things up and settling the flat. Mrs. Hudson took care of most of it, along with some people Mycroft sent over. John helped where he could but when it got to be too much he sat on his bed and stared at the floor, listening to strangers handling his best friend’s things. Lestrade took him out for a pint a time or two, but it always ended up with John drinking until he passed out. And the new therapist couldn’t approve of that.

Mrs. Hudson promised he could stay at Baker Street, but how he could he possibly do so? Stamford found him a small place he could afford on his salary, though he strongly suspected Mycroft was chipping in part of the rent. But he couldn’t be bothered to care. If Mycroft wanted to help support the man that couldn’t even stop his brother from killing himself, who was he to stop him?

He didn’t bring much with him to the new flat. Color seeped out of the world and the nightmares that had nearly ceased returned with a vengeance. Two weeks after returning to work he was quietly let go, with a promise that he could return once his therapist approved it. John stopped going to the therapist.

Two days after that he took a walk along the Thames.  He looked out at the river and wondered what it would feel like to just let go. He stepped towards the water, but paused. Some reflection caught his attention and he looked up. But the image was gone. Shaking his head, he turned for the flat that had to be home now.

**

Stamford found him some volunteer work at a clinic. It wasn’t much, but it got him out of the house, even if the man would come himself to make sure John went. John would grumble and complain, but he’d go and do his few hours, then come home and curl up in front of the telly with some take away. Sometimes he thought he could hear Sherlock’s voice when he sat just right, but when he turned his head he was always alone.

Eight months after Sherlock died, John Watson found himself standing on a chair in his tiny kitchen, rope in his hands. But then he started thinking about the nice little old man who ran the place who would probably find him and have to clean up the mess. His shoulders sagged and he carefully climbed down. A noise at the door made him frown and he went to it, cautious.

A little black kitten mewed up at him. John frowned and looked around the hall, but there was no sign of anyone. The kitten head butted his leg, and John carefully crouched down to pick it up, mindful of his knee. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, voice rusty and barely used. “It’s cold and wet.” He carried the kitten inside and put it on the chair, going to his old fridge and finding some milk that wasn’t too far off. “Someone is going to be missing you, we’ll have to find your owner.”

 

**

The one year anniversary of Sherlock’s death, John spent mostly in bed. The cat was still there, a bit bigger, but on the small side as cats went. She licked John’s face until he got up just to feed her, then ended up finding himself some stale crackers before heading back to bed again. Someone knocked on his door once, but they soon went away. John hadn’t seen any of his old friends but Stamford for months. Late in the evening he wrote an angry letter to Sherlock, then burned it in the sink.

He sat on his bed and cried afterward, the first time since that he’d really cried. Early the next morning he pulled on his ragged jacket and took the Cluedo board from the box he’d taken from Baker Street. Despite the weather he walked to the graveyard. Finding Sherlock’s grave was easy. Bowing his head, he rested the board against the cold headstone.

“I know you’re gone,” he said softly, tears stinging his eyes again.  “I know I will never see you again. If you….you were still alive, you’d send me some sign. I…I’m trying Sherlock, I’m…” He broke down and sank to a seat, resting his head against the cold stone as he sobbed.

It was Mrs. Hudson who found him there. He hadn’t seen her in half a year. She fussed over him and took him out for lunch and tea and it was the most human conversation John had in months. The next day he went back to his therapist.

**

A year and three months after Sherlock’s death, John was back at the surgery. There were new people here now, ones that didn’t know his history. The ones that did were careful not to talk about it. To his surprise, John found he could sometimes smile a little, maybe even give a little laugh. Sure he was using his cane more these days, but he was still a good doctor, could still do some good.

He kept volunteering at the clinic too, at least a few hours. His therapist cautioned him against throwing himself too much into work. He came home at night and curled in front of the telly until he fell asleep, usually with the cat in his lap, then start the next day all over again.

**

The first date came a year and seven months after the fall. The girl was nice enough, her sister was a nurse at the surgery and thought John just needed a nice girl to settle down with. John took her out to dinner, but the fog rolled in and he found himself unable to really talk to her about anything. She made an excuse and left before dinner was even finished. John watched her go, then paid the bill.

John walked out in a good London drizzle. He several blocks before he realized he was walking towards Baker Street. Shaking, he turned the other way, thinking of how stupid Sherlock would say he was being. But Sherlock wasn’t here to say anything, would never say anything again. A cab pulled up even though John hadn’t hailed it. “Come on, you look soaked, I’ll take ya home, mate.”

John hesitated, but even if it was some sort of trap, what did he have to lose? The landlord would take care of the cat. He gave his address and sat shivering in the back seat. The cab driver was fortunately silent, though John caught him glancing back at him in the review mirror once, eyes quickly turned away before John could catch them.

Dropping John off, the driver refused any money. Shaking his head, John headed up to his flat and got out of  his wet clothes, feeding the cat before going to his bed and crawling between the covers. His nightmares were so bad that night that he woke up on the floor. John picked up his gun from the nightstand and held it loosely in his hands, sitting on the floor until dawn. He did not tell the therapist about the date or the cab ride.

**

The second anniversary of Sherlock’s death John spent up to his elbows in work as there had been a very bad car accident and everyone was needed. He barely had time to think about the date until he got home and showered and collapsed on the threadbare couch, flipping on the telly and finding the news on.

He turned the telly back off and went to his room. The cat curled up next to him and he pet it silently. John knew this date would always be hard, but at least he knew he’d done good today, that people were alive today because of what he’d done. He closed his eyes, feeling the empty silence of the tiny flat. The cat snuggled close and started purring against his chest, filling the silence, just a little.

**

Two years and four months later, John attended a wedding. Not knowing who else to bring, he brought along Mrs. Hudson, knowing she’d be delighted even if she’d also tease him about not bringing along a more appropriate date. There had been no more dates with anyone and as far as John was concerned, there never would be. At least his coworkers had stopped trying.

He’d been seeing Mrs. Hudson a bit more too, trying to make sure he met with her for lunch at least once a month, though he did not go to Baker Street. She seemed to understand and never had a problem meeting him somewhere .  He didn’t bring her to his own sad flat either, though he was certain she’d be pleased about the cat.

He didn’t see much of the others these days, but he knew both Molly and Lestrade were still with the force. It was fine, he told himself. He had his work and the cat and lunches with Mrs. Hudson and that was all that was required. Sure he’d almost stepped in front of a bus the week prior, but someone had grabbed his elbow and yanked him back before he could even step off the curb.

**

Nearly three years to the day of the fall, John came home tired and late from work. He put his key in the lock of his flat, and the door fell open. Frowning and wishing he had his gun, he carefully pushed opened the door. There, in front of the telly, Sherlock had fallen asleep, the cat curled up in his arms. John was so stunned he froze for several long moments until the cat noticed him and stood and stretched. John very quietly closed the door.

Sherlock was thinner than John remembered, face drawn, even in sleep. John moved as quietly as he could through the flat and grabbed the chair from the kitchen, sitting down and watching the man, wondering if he’d finally cracked completely or overdosed on the anti-depressants. The cat bumped his leg, again reminding him that he was really here. Bending to pet her, the chair creaked and Sherlock started awake.

He blinked and looked over. “John?” he said cautiously.

“Yes.” John didn’t trust himself to say anything more or move from his seat.

Sherlock bit his lip, staying where he was. “I see you kept the cat.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What of it? What do you know about her?”

Sherlock put his hands up defensively. “I couldn’t be here, I hoped she’d help you.”

“You died, Sherlock. I watched you die.”

“I had to…”

John stood up, stalking towards him. Sherlock made no move to defend himself as John grabbed the front of his shirt. “Do you have any idea…”

“Yes.” Sherlock met his eyes and John was surprised to see tears threatening. He sagged and dropped Sherlock’s shirt, turning away and rubbing his own face. “I’m not supposed to drink on these meds, but you want to join me for a pint?”

Sherlock stood, carefully keeping his distance. “Yes, I think I would.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


End file.
